


Cold Coffee

by boxparade



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Split
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:09:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not sure how long he’s been standing in the middle of the kitchen, silently freaking out, falling apart just to pull himself back together so he can start over, but he swirls the last of the coffee in his mug and takes a sip and it’s cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Write about someone waking up and getting a cup of coffee. Don’t say who they are but make it clear by what they do. (For my Creative Writing class. I'm so classy, writing secret fanfic for an assignment.)

The alarm blares like a tornado siren off the empty walls, and it sounds even more grating since he’s been awake long enough to comprehend that this isn’t part of his dream. He’s tempted to chuck the whole thing across the room, simply because they do that in the movies and he’s never found a reason to do it in real life.

Instead he whacks at the buttons with lazy fingers, and it’s one continuous movement from there to rolling out of bed, dizzy when he sits up and places his feet firmly on the ground. He can tell from the scratchy carpet and the stillness and the quiet that’s he’s at home, and he wonders when it became a part of his morning routine to take a moment and remember where he was waking up today.

He doesn’t bother with a shirt or pants over his boxers, never needs to with the house so empty these days, dried and crusted water rings on the coffee table from bottles that haven’t been there in months. Light streams in randomly from the slits in the ruffled curtains, catches on the thick film of dust in the air and gives the room an ethereal glow.

Everything is clean in the sense that there’s no clutter, save for the clothes exploding out of the duffle bag that’s taken up permanent residence in the corner of his bedroom as both a closet and a hamper. His mother, in the few times she’s been here, always complains that he needs something personal, something to claim the house as his, something to make it a home. He doesn’t see the point in getting anything when he’s just going to leave again, and in the weeks or months he’s gone, some part of his brain will decide he doesn’t like what he bought. He always throws everything out when he finally gets back, save for the furniture and the microwave.

He scrubs a hand down his face, three days worth of stubble hardly ticklish against the calluses of his hands, continues down to scratch at his bare chest and stomach. This is one of the things he loves about living alone, the way nothing is expected of him. He can stop shaving and wear the same pair of boxers two days in a row and no one will say a word, save for the judgmental eyes of the neighbor’s cat that likes to sleep on his windowsill.

He has to do everything twice before his fingers decide to work for him and get the coffee brewing, the slow drip the only clock in the room, and he hops up onto the counter in a way reminiscent of his teenage years, spending long hours at Ryan’s where all the rules didn’t apply and it still gave him a rush to do something like sleep in his jeans or let the dishes form a precariously balanced tower in the sink.

Long years of manners are still ingrained even now, and he glances over with weary eyes to the sink, a single fork sitting at the bottom and bone dry because he hasn’t used the sink for at least three days.

He pulls the coffee pot from the hot pad before the drip is done, pours himself a quick mug and places the pot back before the next drip can fall and sizzle on the hot pad. Too many distracting mornings carry heavy memories of that sound, and the resulting mess that burnt a little more every time he put the coffee on and always made him think the house was on fire.

He doesn’t bother with sugar or milk or waiting for the coffee to cool to something less than boiling, revels in the burn on his tongue and the way he won’t be able to taste anything properly for a few days. It’s not like he’s been eating anything but pizza and Chinese take-out, anyway. He has a pyramid of the boxes stacked up behind the couch as proof.

With each sip, the coffee feels a little less like liquid fire and a little more like wakefulness, and he really doesn’t know why he still bothers when he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to do for at least a week. He might as well just crawl back in bed, but it makes him feel just a little too pathetic so instead he gets up, showers sometimes, has coffee, and spends the rest of the day waiting for something to happen.

He lets the mug warm his palm as he carries it with him and wanders over to the window in the kitchen, looking for the neighbor’s cat but seeing nothing but white, sun-warmed wood through smudged glass. It’s too early for the television, nothing but cartoons on, and while he’s not against the occasional mindlessness that comes with simple animation and even simpler plot lines, it’s not one of those mornings. He’s been avoiding the internet almost exclusively, doesn’t want to read what people think even though it’s tearing him up inside not to.

Instead, he just stares out into a small patch of yard and an indistinct change in color of the grass that marks the neighbor’s property. He realizes he doesn’t want to stay here, not really, and makes a vague mental note to start looking through the paper for houses, or maybe find a realtor. Maybe something on the coast, the kind of place he couldn’t afford before. Small, though. He doesn’t want to think about too many empty rooms with nothing to put in them.

Before he can remember deciding to, he’s got a notebook under his palm and a pen pressed in his hand, half a To-Do list scribbled along the top. _House hunting. Call mom. Laundry? Sign/read(?) contracts._ He’s tempted to add _Figure out what the hell to do with your life,_ to the end, but figures he’s not quite emo enough for that one and leaves it. He’s trying to think up other things, mind foggy and thick from the three days he’s spent doing and thinking about absolutely nothing. He wonders if there are people who live like this all the time, never doing anything, never making plans, never even really thinking. It scares him a little that he could go just three days.

He catches himself twirling the pen around his fingers, the weight lighter and the shape completely different from a drumstick, but it’s the way he handles it that sends a pang of hurt and guilt through his chest, and he stops and places the pen firmly down on top of the notepad, crossing over the ring left by a coffee mug the last time he made a list, something like six months ago. It’s been so long he can’t remember. He’s still unsure every time he gives out his address, trying to figure out if the 7 or the 9 comes first. He’s lived here for three years.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he jolts down a quick _Call record company_ and tries not to think about it much more than that.

He’s not sure how long he’s been standing in the middle of the kitchen, silently freaking out, falling apart just to pull himself back together so he can start over, but he swirls the last of the coffee in his mug and takes a sip and it’s cold.

The mug hits the granite with a loud _chink_ and he wonders if one day, it’s going to shatter, just like his band and his friends with it. He’s angry and he’s upset and he’s a thousand other things he doesn’t have words for, couldn’t because he’s never been a lyricist, and he feels like he’s lost the one person that could turn his thoughts into something more, something tangible and real. He doesn’t know how to get his words back now they’re gone.

There’s a sharp knock on the door, stuttered and quick, and it’s startling enough to pull him from his reminiscence unwillingly. He leaves everything as it is, combs a hand through his hair just to make it blatantly obvious he hasn’t done much but sleep and eat in the last three days, and twists the knob as slowly as he knows how.

It’s not unexpected to see the red-framed glasses or the lavender hoodie or the body vibrating like a hummingbird, but he doesn’t quite expect the pale cheeks, the shadows under puffy eyelids, or the ghost of a man standing on his front porch like the wind would knock him over any moment.

“Hey,” is the only thing he says, and the only thing he gets in return is a broken, hopeful smile and the brush of fabric against his elbow as his empty house fills up just a little bit more. It’s still quiet, the soft patter of footsteps as they move by unspoken agreement to the kitchen, and it’s methodical, the way spindly fingers reach up to pull out a second mug, pour the last of the coffee, sip at it hesitantly and then the scrunched up nose at the taste before he disappears into the fridge.

There’s no milk, and he doesn’t even know where he keeps the sugar if he has any, but he’s silent and watchful because this is rare and stunning and fleeting and just a tad bitter, like the aftertaste of cold coffee.

A few more minutes and the search is abandoned, and instead he’s confronted with a kind of stillness he doesn’t know how to handle, blank, innocent eyes fixating on him, the only thing between them a cup of lukewarm coffee that no one’s drinking.

He feels like he could smile, almost, and like it would feel right. He doesn’t know why, and it scares him a bit to know that just a knock and a smile could do all this to him, get his heart pounding against his ribs, and maybe it’s because he thought he lost this, thought he lost the one person that might still know where all his words went, and how to get them back. How to get his life back after it fell through the cracks.

Finally, a delayed reaction like a completely different conversation cuts through the sunlight and the dust and the empty, lonely space and the cold cup of coffee and the years of music that still cling to their every thought. “Hey.”

It’s like breathing for the first time in three days, hearing something real and gritty and meaningful for the first time in months, seeing his life laid out before him with a giant, red, blinking arrow poised right over this moment, screaming _This is why nothing ever fit._

It’s ridiculous, but it’s beautiful, and he’s already grinning when there’s a soft press of lips against his, and it tastes like cold coffee and every morning he’s ever woken up to, except with the promise of something more, something— _someone_ —to fill up all the empty spaces and stir up the dust and set the timer on the coffee machine and fill the sink with unwashed dishes and give him his words back before wiping them all away and helping him create a thousand more, words that mean everything but say nothing at all.


End file.
